Paper Rings
by Snoweylily
Summary: Make a name for yourself. Make it unpronounceable. Make it out of mud, blood, clay. Curse all those who learn this name. I am your host, Q. Welcome to Night Vale...
1. One

Welcome to my first James Bond crossover fanfic, and (if i'm not mistaken) also the first **James Bond/Welcome to Night Vale** fic too! It's the cast of James Bond set in the WTNV universe, with **Cecil & Carlos being Q & Bond** respectively, along with a few more favourites. It's **00Q**, of course, and told from **Q's point of view! **Enjoy!

* * *

Make a name for yourself. Make it unpronounceable. Make it out of mud, blood, clay. Curse all those who learn this name.

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Hello listeners.

To begin with, the Sheriff's Secret Police have asked me to read out the following statement.

I'm unsure what it is about, given that I have only just now, this very second, received this piece of parchment, which materialised in my favourite tea mug just as I was about to take a sip.

Thankfully for the Sheriff's Secret Police, it was empty. Unthankfully, however, for me, it was _empty_. Anyway, the statement reads- Actually, hang on, you know what? Before I read this out let me just- Eve? _Eve_, are you there?

… _Huh_.

Well, dear listeners, it appears that Intern Eve has yet to come in today, which, although is unusual for her, given that interns are required to spend at least 23 of their 29-hour days in the radio station, I suppose it's to be expected after yesterday's portal incident. _Hmm_. Perhaps I should check on her later on…

But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself. Since Eve isn't here to make me tea, I guess I'll just have to do without.

Now so. Back to that note… Ah yes, here it is.

*_Ahem_*

"The Sheriff's Secret Police would like to remind you that the Night Vale Elementary School is hosting a bake sale this weekend, and all parents, siblings, and distant relatives are expected to attend. Home-baked goods such as cupcakes, chocolate cakes, and oh-no-i-forgot-to-bake-a-cake cakes are required, and all those who do not provide confectionary, will be arrested and executed by a Tibetan firing squad as usual".

… Considering that the ban on wheat and wheat by products is still in place, I'm not quite sure how this is meant to be achieved. Nevertheless, the note continues.

"The Sheriff's Secret Police would _also_ like to remind you to assist the Neighbourhood Watch Program whenever possible, such as by keeping all windows open in your home, speaking loudly and gesturing wildly to increase the ease of surveillance, avoiding wearing tinfoil hats because although they do not actually block helicopter mind-scanners, they do make you look like an idiot-"

They continue in this manner for quite some time, raving on about boring conversations and noise pollution and something about nerve gas and- oh.

Oh, would you look at that.

It seems that a new man came into town today, listeners. A- _A spy_.

Oh my.

Old Woman Josie, out near the Car Lot, had an entire conversation about this new man with the Angels this morning, and since Old Woman Josie obeys the Neighbourhood Watch Program, the Sheriff's Secret Police had no problem overhearing their conversation, recording it, and then putting it in this statement for me to read.

A new man.

Apparently, the Angels said that his name is Bond. James Bond. Like those long-term lending agreements, the government issues from time to time. He's here on official business, said the Angels, though they didn't specify what. He's posing as a scientist, they continued, although he's _really_ a spy and just _pretending_ to be a scientist so he can investigate our small town under the _pretence_ of science…

_Well_.

I don't know about you, dear listeners, but James the Spy already sounds like quite the character. Now, I know what you're thinking. 'But Q, this man has only been here five minutes and he's already lied to us!'. And yes, that's true, but our own Mayor lies to us every day and we still like her, right? And besides, nobody said that you can't be both a spy _and_ a scientist, and we're used to spies from a vague yet menacing government agency anyway, _so_ _hey_, I say we give James the Spy a chance!

The Sheriff's Secret Police don't go into any more detail about the conversation between Old Woman Josie and the Angels, because it was at this moment, they remembered that Angels don't actually exist, and if Angels don't exist then they can't be talking, now, can they? They have nevertheless advised that although _James Bond_ knows he's a spy, and although _we_ know he's a spy, _he_ doesn't know that _we_ know _he's_ a spy, and since we don't know how this outsider will react to us having that knowledge, we are all to pretend that _we don't know_.

I have to admit, I'm still quite intrigued by this James Bond fellow. Perhaps I can find out more, later, when I check in on Intern Eve. If any of you dear listeners have more information about the new not-scientist in the meantime, feel free to call in! In the meantime, however, a word from our sponsors.

* * *

_It's dark. You're driving home. Alone, as usual, nothing to worry about. Only you should. You should worry. Because it's dark. You're driving home. And you're alone. Oh, so, terribly alone… Your car engine rumbles and you pull over. Your car engine is smoking. It's dark. You're alone. You pull out your phone, but it's dead for no explicit reason. It's dark. You're alone. You look around, peering through the dark for some light. Any light. Help. It's dark. You're suddenly not alone. You wish you'd remembered a flashlight._ **_Ikea_**

* * *

Welcome back, listeners!

During the break many of you called in, expressing both your concern about Intern Eve's welfare, and also providing more information about the new man in town.

First of all, to put your minds at ease, or, well, as at ease as they can be given the black mind-scanning helicopters that fly perpetually overhead, I personally called Eve to make sure she was okay. She assured me that everything was fine and that she was simply living in a different time stream than me thanks to the portal incident, and as a result, won't be in until mid-afternoon which coincides with her morning. I apologised for calling her during the middle of her night, and hung up.

But now, the part you've all been waiting for. Just who, exactly, is our latest visitor?

Well, according to Old Woman Josie out near the car lot, who called in personally just a few minutes ago, his name is James Bond, he's from Europe, and he's neither small nor tall. Considering that Old Woman Josie regularly hangs out with 10-foot angels, however, she cannot be trusted on what can be considered small and/or tall. Madeline Swann, the Mayor's personal mind-reader, said he's handsome, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Another, anonymous, citizen of Night Vale said he's dangerous looking, shouldn't be trusted, and is a threat to our way of life and-

Okay. No. You know what? I know _exactly_ who that was.

_Raoul Silva._

Raoul Silva is _such_ a spoilsport! Disregard the last statement I just made, dear listeners, because Raoul Silva ruins everything and has an idiotic taste in shoes and dyes his hair a completely unnatural shade of corn yellow and simply cannot bowl for the life of him! He's also petitioning for the reinstatement of computer in Night Vale, despite all computing machines having been forbidden after _the Event_ in 1986. Gosh. To just disregard our history like that and now to offer unsolicited opinions about James the Spy that-

Ugh.

_Raoul Silva._

And now, to allow myself time to calm down and bleach the thoughts of that _guy_ from my brain, I give you, _traffic_.

* * *

_Tonight's full moon has been brought to you by Pepsi._

_Pepsi: We Created the Moon and We Will Eventually Destroy It._

* * *

That was, _traffic_.

Readers, let me tell you, the best thing just happened during the break and I can hardly contain myself. The new man, the spy, the non-scientist… visited me!

Or, well, he visited the station. The radio station. But since I was on break at the time and he didn't have the correct blood type to open the front door, I opened it for him and then he came in and introduced himself and asked about my lack of name and why I just went by the moniker 'Q' and then we had tea- _yes, he drinks tea as well, isn't that just amazing?_ -and he started asking me questions about our little town and-

Okay. I know that he was only asking those questions to report the information back to his superiors, listeners, but I couldn't help but answer. All the while, he was taking notes on the _cutest_ little clipboard, "for science" he said, and isn't it just _adorable_ how dedicated he is in pretending to be a scientist?!

Anyway, he's just as handsome as Madeline Swann described, with a square jaw and white teeth and perfect hair that I hate and love in equal measure. His eyes were colder than ice, _if that were a thing_, but lit up like the glow cloud whenever he smiled.

Be still my beating heart.

Stop squirming in there. I mean it. _Stop it_.

Oh listeners, words are not enough to describe how brilliant this new man is… Hawk noises aren't enough either. He stayed for a while, _a long glorious while_, asking about the colour of the sky, a pale canary yellow today, and about the hooded figures outside the dog park that doesn't exist, and why we fear the librarians and boy scouts. I answered him best I could, this information is well-known after all, so I wasn't doing any harm, and he recorded all of my answers with a furrow between his brows which deepens the longer I talk.

He also had a shoulder holster beneath his beautiful blue sweater, and I wasn't sure whether or not to tell him that guns don't kill people. In the end, I didn't mention it. That should be common knowledge, right? That it's impossible to be killed by a gun? That we're all invincible to bullets and it's a miracle? I don't know if I did the right thing or not, listeners. But… I suppose… at least this gives me a reason to speak to him again, right?

Probably.

Possibly.

… Hopefully.

And now, _the weather_.

* * *

_The old church down the street, concrete beneath my feet, the shadows of the leaves_

_I speak in ancient tongues, I stare straight at the sun, what I've done can't be undone_

_Blood on my hands but not on my soul, someday, God willing, I will be whole_

_And up above, I feel the love, from every star in the sky, I'll never be alone, I will never cry, I'll never be alone, I will never die_

_I hear them speaking still, my will is not my will, I wonder what is real_

_Dig in deeper, these and more than these, you gotta dig in deeper_

* * *

The city council would like to remind you that any citizen who wish to use hammers must obtain a valid Hammer License from the City Council. Looking at you, John Peters, you know, the farmer? Apparently, John has been seen using a hammer to mend a fence on the edge of his imaginary corn fields, despite not having a license. As usual, he will be charged with treason and brought to the abandoned mine shift outside of town for correction. They would also like to remind you that books are dangerous and inadvisable and should not be kept in private homes. Did you read any good books lately? No? _Good_.

James, perfect and beautiful, left a few hours ago, and I already miss his cold yet comforting aura and his endless questions and curiosity about our lovely little town and anything that may or may not possibly maybe exist.

It's getting late, and it's almost time for me to sign off. I hope all of you out there have someone to ask you questions, someone to awe you with their perfect smile and hair, and someone to think about while you drift off to sleep on this clear, void, star filled night.

Outside, the world is dreaming, dear listeners… I'm not sure that I'm not, too.

Goodnight, Night Vale, _Goodnight_.


	2. Two

You have one foot in the grave… Wow, that thing is _at least_ six feet deep, is one of your legs just super long or something?

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Since I last spoke to you, dear listeners, a lot of time has passed, or, perhaps, no time at all, or maybe, even _all_ the time… Either way, James the not-scientist is still here in our lovely little town, and he is still as curious as ever! Eve tells me he's just doing his job as a spy from a vague yet menacing government agency or whatever, but I know better.

In other news, Intern Eve has returned to our time stream! She started Monday morning on time this week, and so far, it seems to be sticking. And since she _has_ returned, I can now continue my dangerous yet satisfying uninterrupted consumption of tea. And Eve knows exactly how I take it. I like my tea, listeners, like I like my nights.

Dark.

Endless.

And impossible to sleep through.

She says that others here in Night Vale have also experienced this strange, altered time dimensions. John Peters, you know, the farmer? He said it's not _quite_ the same as when he was transported time and place during the desert otherworld debacle, and Mayor Cardinal, or former intern Dana as you better know her, has also said things are out of sync, not enough to cause _too_ much trouble, but still _just _enough to be noticeable. Big Rico claims that pizzas are taking half an hour less to cook, but given that they only take 20 minutes to cook to begin with, he now has to remove the pizzas from the oven 10 minutes before he even puts them in. This has caused some havoc and disgruntlement with customers, because, as you know, _no one makes a slice like Big Rico's._

Old Woman Josie reports that the angels have no jurisdiction in this matter, and cannot help us or offer any advice at all.

Thanks, Erika.

Now, a word from our sponsors.

* * *

_Nothing lasts forever. This phrase has two meanings. Both are true… Embrace your eternal side. __**iTunes**__._

* * *

That was a word from our sponsors.

A lot of you having been asking about Khoshekh, the stray cat that just appeared one day, hovering in a fixed location in the men's bathroom here at the radio station. Well, he has happily settled into living at my apartment, having become de-fixed from his place four feet off the ground during the Strex Corp… _incident_.

I am happy to announce that he fully recovered from his injuries and has learned to move, eat, and photosynthesise like a normal cat. A normal cat that is missing one eye, part of his paw, and has spine ridges that regularly, inexplicitly, change colour. I think it has something to do with his current mood…

Anyway, it's been some weeks now since he adjusted to life as a house cat, and, dear listeners, he has even given birth to his _second_ adorable litter of kittens! For any listeners wondering how a definitely male cat could give birth to not just one, but two, litters of smaller cats, I say to you that somethings… just aren't meant to be questioned, no matter how many times they occur.

Now listeners, you know me, and you know how greatly and deeply I _love_ my beautiful, beautiful, deadly cat. Well, when I saw this new litter of kittens, and gazed at their cute little faces, full of awe and love even as they shredded my favourite wood-coloured horse radish cardigan, I just couldn't find it in my heart to give them away. I still miss Mixtape, and if _I_ miss that cute little furball, then imagine how badly _Khoshekh_ must miss his own children. I can't just take them away from him again. _So_... I've decided to keep this litter, for better or for worse, and I've even already named the four little nightmares; Edison, Tesla, Einstein, and Colonel Attenborough the Third, or C.A.T., for short.

I hope James is a cat person. He strikes me as a dog person, dear listeners, but maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised or find out he's both! Or maybe he's a snake person. You can be a snake person if you want to be. Or a hamster person. Or a bear person. Or a wild pygmy sunfish person.

Oh yes! That reminds me:

* * *

_To whoever or… __**whatever**__… that keeps daydreaming about wild pygmy sunfish: Please. Stop. Your imagination is seeping into our reality and it's affecting traffic._

* * *

This has been, and will always be, _traffic_.

Good news! Oh… wait… no.

Listeners, you'll _never_ guess who called me this morning. Go on. Guess. No, not that person… Nope, not them either… Why would _they_ call me… Oh for- did you just- Raoul Silva? _Really?_ No! Ugh, _eww_, that's just- that's just- _no! _If Raoul Silva called me, I would decline the call, turn off my phone, remove the battery and government-issued SIM card, and then pour the entire bundle into a large ravine and fill it up with concrete. Any other guesses? No?

Okay, fine. I'll just say it then.

_James!_

James the Spy, James the not-scientist, James the beautiful and perfect straight-teethed blonde-haired blue-eyed _angel! _

Metaphorically, of course, since we all know angels don't _actually_ exist.

Well, the first and only time he visited me here at the station, and by _me_, I mean just the station in general, where I work and therefore had the pleasure of allowing him in through the blood-stoned ritualistic old wooden door… _Anyway_, the first time he visited, I gave him my personal phone number, and he never called or texted or even emailed me, but I didn't think anything of it, right? I mean, sometimes people just _don't_ call, and that's understandable. Really. _It is_. And those rumours about perfect James the spy shacking up with Madeline Swann are completely unfounded, okay? That didn't happen and _they_ didn't happen and even if they did that wouldn't affect me in any way _at all_ because-

Well.

Just _because_.

But, finally, eventually, _at last_, he rang! James called me this morning and I was so excited I could barely answer the phone! When I did, I paused, took a deep breath, and then said, "Hello?"

"Q?" He replied, and oh dear listeners how my heart _soared_ at the sound of his dulcet tones saying my name.

"Yea" I said, "I'm here".

"I was wondering if I could talk to you" He replied, "And ask you a few more questions? For my research?"

He still believes that everyone here in Night Vale think he's a scientist, and that level of dedication to his job amazes me.

"Sure" I said, _obviously_, "Do you want to meet up or-?"

And this, listeners, is where my hopes were dashed.

"No, on the phone will work" He said.

I had to stab myself in the leg with one of my paperclip-highlighting-machine-spelling-autocorrect gizmos to keep my voice steady.

"Oh" I replied, sadly, "Okay then, ask away".

And although I was bitterly crushed by the rejection of a meet-up or get-together or, dare I say, _date_, I was still happy to talk to him. I quite enjoy talking to James. I find it… calming. Secure. _Safe_, somehow. Almost like-

Oh. Hang on. _Urgent update on the time-losing-gaining-stream issue._ The City Council has just reached out to me, using the form of a non-corporal ghostly blueish-purple spectre of, what I can only assume, is a mule deer, with the head of a fennec fox and the legs of a Malayan sun bear. Through the… _creature's_… wide, gaping, mouth, the Council are speaking to me in unison. They're concerned, it seems, about this change of time, and have, in no way, shape, or form, caused it to happen.

Listeners, my phone just buzzed.

Okay Q, you have to wait, it's unprofessional and rude to answer your phone while on the air so… back to the news.

As I was saying, the City Council take no credit for this time-stream issue, and would like to remind our listeners that, once again, Hammers. Are. Forbidden. Unless you have a hammer licence, which currently has a waiting list of… two people! Apply _right this second_ to get a complimentary mechanic drill licence for- oh. oh no. Too late. The second has passed. And now you will never, ever, ever, _ever_, get that drill licence.

I mean, you could still use drills regardless, if you want to get executed. Or if you're immortal, I guess. Which... is illegal, according to this deer/fox/bear being, who is still hovering a foot above the ground in my recording booth.

So… I guess… just apply for a hammer and drill license? The City Council's creature is nodding emphatically. My phone is still buzzing. Maybe just a quick glance and the screen and-

Listeners.

_It's James._

Okay, quickly, just- _here_, have _the weather_.

* * *

_Hey Danny Boy, I was thinking of our crew, but think just makes me sad, and that's why I write to you._

_How do you do? There's been years between us, didn't we have big ideas when our school was done?_

_Those days are gone and my heart is aching, thought I deserved so much more than work could pay._

_I guess the damage is done, and there's no way I can fake it, those days are gone, and my heart is breaking._

_If this gets to you, I hope it finds you well, there's not much else, out here it's been raining._

_Those days are here, and my heart is waiting._

* * *

Listeners, dear, _dear_ listeners… James just asked me on a date!

Yes, you heard that right. James. Me. _A date! _I can't hold back my excitement, listeners, this is incredible and brilliant and oh my gosh I can't wait! He apologised for being so abrupt earlier this morning, and said that he wants to make it up for me by buying me tea! Can you believe it? _Tea_. He knows me, dear listeners, James the Spy really _knows_ me!

He said he'll pick me up after my shift today, which is in… oh, about 17 minutes or so. 17 long _longgg_ minutes. Okay, let's see. 17 minutes. I can do that. Let's take a look at the community calendar.

Monday has been cancelled.

Tuesday, there'll be a mandatory fire drill. When you hear the sirens, burn as many things as you can!

Wednesday is a lazy day.

Thursday will be foggy, and we all know what that means. Stay inside. For the love of god, _stay! Inside! _

Friday, there won't be any parade. Nope. No parade here. _None. At. All._

Saturday will grow fangs.

And Sunday will be entirely uneventful, until 8pm that night when you suddenly remember all the things you have to do for next week but kept putting off over and over again until now, Sunday, 8pm,_ and you have_ _so much to do._

Whew. Well, let's take a look… 14 minutes left. _Really?_ Okay, what else is there to report-

My phone just whistled.

It's a text message.

_From James!_

"Hey, Q, it's me" He says, "Traffic was light-"

Well of course it was, all vehicles recently got fitted with helium balloons, so traffic is now quite literally, _light_.

Anyway, he continues:

"-so I arrived at the station earlier than expected. I'm happy to wait in reception, but the door won't open".

Oh listeners. Perfect, beautiful, incredible James… seems to be something of an idiot. I keyed his blood into the ruins during his first visit, after all, so he should be able to open it without issue. Let me just reply real quick.

_"Of course it will, put your back into it"._

... He's typing!

"Why don't you come down here and put _your_ back into it?"

Oh.

Oh _my_.

_Listeners_.

Okay, right, well, I better go and… _put my back into it._

Also, station management, who we usually refer to using the simple moniker M, has just informed me through a series of growls, malicious laughter, and Morse code, that talking about my personal life and texting on air is unprofessional and should it continue, they'll suspend me. Quite literally. From the ceiling's rotatory fan.

More on this story, _aka my date with James_, later! Stay tuned next for the lingering painful nostalgia you feel deep in your chest when thinking of your past _whether you want to or not._

Goodnight, Night Vale, _Goodnight_.


	3. Three

"What happens after we die?" is a question often asked about life. "When am I even going to use this?" is a question often asked about math. It turns out, both questions have the exact same answer…

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Hello, dear listeners. I'm _back_.

You may have been wondering where I was for the last two-and-a-half weeks, and why Intern Eve took my place in reporting the daily happenings of Night Vale. Well, you can stop worrying because I have finally returned! As has, so far, happened with nearly sixty percent of Night Vale residents over the last month, the timestream in which I live in got disrupted. As a result, I was living an entire seven hours out of sync with the rest of the town, and so, couldn't continue working until my time fixed itself again.

There was one upside to this, however, and as much as I missed my job and being involved in the day-to-day running of our friendly little town, I have to say, the trade-off was admirable.

James, too, was thrown into my muddled-up time stream.

What a glorious two-and-a-half-weeks it was, listeners.

He took me out for tea, as promised, that last faithful day when time was time and spies were spies -not that any of us are to let James know that _we_ know who he really is, of course. The Sheriff's Secret Police were _quite_ clear about that. But anyway, James the Spy came in and walked me to his car, a beautiful silver Aston Martin DB5 with a purring engine that my hands just ached to get a hold of, and even held open the door for me! What a gentleman! I, of course, was wearing my usual off-beige double zipped cardigan and gingham check trousers, while James had opted for a more laid-back look with jeans and a blue sweater that brought out his eyes _just so_. Oh listeners, I could ramble on and _on_ about those eyes forever and ever and ever and-

_*Ahem*_

Intern Eve has just informed me that I am making "gooey eyes" and she is quite concerned.

The point is, we were both beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight, each other's dreams met in a real world moment. So, we went for tea and talked and laughed and I found myself falling in love. And even after the tea was done, and the bill was paid by screaming into the void, as usual, even after I thought that the date was finished… it wasn't. James took my hand, dear listeners, his fingers gliding down my arm and over my wrist where my pulse was undoubtedly betraying me, and then laced his hand in mine and said, "Come with me".

And, of course, I did.

He led me back to his car, but kept hold of my hand even as he turned the key and started driving, past City Hall, past Night Vale General Hospital, past, even, the Car Lot and Petting Zoo where the carnival once came to town that one faithful day so long ago. James the Spy took me to the very edge of Night Vale, listeners, and only when we came upon an abandoned old building did we stop.

"I want to show you something" He said.

"Lead the way" said I.

He opened the car door for me once more, took my hand, and led me towards this strange mansion.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"You'll see" He said.

James opened the door with ease, and guided me through the building like he'd been here before. We reached a long, pale turquoise room with a glass roof and- and art on the walls.

Art, listeners, _art_.

The glorious past time that has been outlawed by the City Council for well over two hundred years now, dear listeners, and _James_ trusted _me_ with its precious location. He took off his coat and laid it down over a bench to cover the worst of the dust, and we sat.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked.

He shrugged, "I found it a while back and realised it was abandoned. Seemed like a waste… And besides, you said you enjoy the Museum of Forbidden Technologies, despite how all of the exhibits are covered in thick burlap at all times. At least here, you can see the museum pieces".

I cannot even begin to describe how my heart thudded at those words, dear listeners. I didn't think such a perfect being could exist.

James and I – oh, the magic of that phrase, oh, the ecstasy that a simple conjunction can imply – sat there for quite some time, staring at the painting of "a bloody big ship", as he called it. Personally, it made me feel a bit melancholy. Grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap... The inevitability of time, don't you think, listeners? And, also, the inevitability of City Council censorship. I dread the day when they find this abandoned art gallery, and I hope that James and I will return before then.

On a related note, here's a word from our sponsors:

* * *

_Every time we press on our eyelids, we see the messages written for us by beings we've long forgotten in a language we never knew… **Should've gone to Specsavers.**_

* * *

Back to the date!

Since James had borne such a secret part of his soul to me, and since he had brought up the Museum of Forbidden Technologies, I felt it compulsory to show him something close to my own heart in return.

And I didn't think he'd appreciate my ribs.

You know me, dear listeners, always tinkering around with this and that, inventing new gizmos and coming up with new ways of doing things, all of which are governmentally regulated, of course. I need to keep my hands busy while on air, for all our sakes, or need I remind you of the vortex manipulator incident of '09?

Anyway, once we were done strolling and talking and smiling at forbidden art, I asked him to drive me home. Once there, I invited him in. A bit forward, I know, but necessary for my plan! You see, when James came into the station the other day, he saw a few of my inventions and got curious. After our date, I decided to show him even more.

And listeners, he _loved_ them!

He didn't understand everything about how they worked or what they did, but he still paid close attention when I explained things to him, and even had a few ideas of his own! One of which, was an exploding pen. _Can you imagine?_ A pen that not only writes, but explodes?! I told him, of course, that such a thing would be impossible given that the Sheriff's Secret Police outlawed all pen and paper many years ago, but I _will_ say this:

The project I'm currently working on, _could_ be summed up as… shall we say… an explosive stylus.

But I'm straying from the story again. I showed James my inventions, he loved them, gave me new ideas, and then, _then_, listeners, Khoshekh and his second litter of Edison, Tesla, Einstein, and Colonel Attenborough the Third, or C.A.T., for short, floated around the corner. The kittens have since grown their spine ridges, but remain cute and fluffy and _smol_. I was worried that James wouldn't like them, or cats in general, but my fears were unfounded.

Have you ever seen a tough macho super-secret agent being reduced to a puddle of goo at the sight of a furry animal, listeners?

Because I have.

James the Spy _loves_ them, like he loves my inventions and loves the art gallery and loves, dare I say it, _me?_

* * *

_~He knows when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he lives inside your mirror, and his human face is fake~_

* * *

That was the traffic… or… like… at least a message from the City Council? Or- Or the Sheriff's Secret Police? Being perfectly honest, listeners, I can't quite _remember_ who gave me that information…

Where was I? Oh yes, the end of the date!

After James finished gushing over the kittens and Khoshekh and we talking some more about my inventions and future ideas, James said he had to go. I walked him back to his car, unwilling to lose any possible time I have with this not-scientist. James opened the driver's door, and paused, turning back to me.

"Well" he said, pointing to his car, "This is me".

"Uh-huh" I said.

"I should probably do something about concealing that art gallery," he said. "We don't want the City Council finding it".

"Agreed" I said, "Do you need any help with that?"

"No" he said. "A scientist is self-reliant. It's the first thing a scientist is".

He sounded like he was trying to remind himself of his cover.

"Oh" I said again, but softer, sadder – which is when he leaned forward and _kissed me._

Just once.

Just… gently.

Just before slipping into the car and driving away.

I'll tell you, listeners, I almost slipped into yet another time stream alteration and I hardly even noticed. I was _so_ happy! I guess James managed to find a way to conceal the abandoned old art gallery, because that was two weeks ago now and I haven't heard anything since.

And now, the weather.

* * *

_My Sister told me be careful when falling in love,_

_but just like a child I went and bit off a little too much!_

_No I don't remember us falling in love,_

_but I'm sure that it happened!_

_My father said be careful take only your need,_

_but just like a man I went and dredged into waters too deep!_

_No I don't remember us falling in love_

_That sort of thing is old fashion!_

_I know this, I know, I don't know_

_No I don't know this, I know_

_No I don't remember us falling in love_

* * *

Speaking of the ongoing time stream issue, someone should _really_ do something about that… I mean, it's a _pretty big deal_, and _everyone's_ talking about it or- well- _not_ talking about it if they're currently sleeping while the rest of us are awake thanks to the previously mentioned ongoing time stream issue but either way, somebody should really get on top of that…

I'm not sure what'll happen next, dear listeners, neither with life in general nor James the Spy. We had several more dates during the two-and-a-half-weeks we were in the same stream, all of which were just as beautiful and wonderful and _fantastic_ as the first. They also all ended the same, with a gentle kiss and a closed car door, but I can't complain. James says he has a surprise in the works, a surprise for me, something he's been working on since our first date. I can't wait to see what it is. I can't wait for him to finally tell me the truth about why he's here.

I wonder if he ever will.

You should be careful what you wish for, after all, because it probably won't come true, and life is about expectations management.

Goodnight, Night Vale, _Goodnight_.


	4. Four

Stars… They're just like us! Mostly volatile burning lumps, noiseless in the void of space. Cold and alone. Dying…

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Welcome, dear listeners.

You will never believe what just happened. And by 'just happened' I mean what happened this weekend. And by this weekend I mean my time stream's weekend, because this whole volatile different time stream issue has been getting worse.

James got shot.

Now, before you start worrying or freaking out or just get plain confused because, of course, guns don't kill people, let me explain.

Last Friday, when James, you know, the spy, came to collect me, he struck up a conversation with Intern Eve and eventually, _somehow_, they got on the topic of weapons and guns. He was quite shocked, listeners, when I told him that guns don't work here. Being a secret spy and all, he probably has a lot of weapons with him, but since we're not meant to know he's a secret spy, I guess he can't ask us specifically which weapons will work and which weapons won't and which weapons will work but then won't because the Sherriff's Secret Police have outlawed them and the weapons have become sentient enough to realise that they shouldn't work so they don't.

_Anyway_.

We explained to James how guns don't kill people. Bees kill people, and poison, and knives, and shady government agents from a vague yet menacing government agency, and those helicopters painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey we're not meant to know about. Alligators too. But not guns. _Never. Guns._

He didn't believe us, unfortunately, and so Intern Eve proposed that we show him. He agreed, and we decided to meet up Saturday morning at 8am our time stream, in front of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Intern Eve brought a handgun from one of the many in Station Management's strange collection, after requesting permission from M, of course, which was immediately granted because, as we all know, guns don't kill people.

So we went into the Bowling Alley, deserted at that time of the morning, or night, depending on your time stream. James stood in front of the pin retrieval area of lane five, Eve stood in front of him, and I stood off to the side. And then, before any of us could react, Intern Eve raised the gun and- _and fired!_

And James got shot.

He was hurt, dear listeners, as the bullet pierced his shoulder. There was blood… oh god, so much _blood_… and it took us far too long to react. He was shot. But he _couldn't_ have been shot. Guns don't kill people! We managed to get him to Night Vale General Hospital, but given that no one has ever been shot before, they didn't know how to help him. James knew, however. He knew what to do, how to remove the bullet and stitch up the wound. We asked him how he knew, but he wouldn't answer. I know, though. We all do, really. We just can't let _him_ know that _we_ know yet.

He's okay, he tells me, but I know his shoulder hurts, and it hurts me that he's hurt. I don't understand how he got shot, listeners. I mean, guns don't kill people! Is it because he's an outsider and our laws of physics and not-physics don't apply to him? Or is it because of these disruptive time streams? I don't know…

I don't like not knowing.

Either way, I guess that there's nothing I can do. James said it'll only take a few weeks for his shoulder to heal. Intern Eve is upset, not realising what she's done or how she did it. Teddy Williams has shut down lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, believing it cursed or haunted or a product of agents from a vague yet threatening government agency.

And now a word from our sponsors:

* * *

_If it's a big enough stone, you can kill way more than two birds. Think about it. __**Toys R Us**_

* * *

Listeners, the City Council would like to remind citizens not to go near the Night Vale Post Office opposite the Dog Park that doesn't exist. According to one FedEx spokesperson: "It is cursed". You all remember the great howling that emanated from post office back in 2012, howling which resembled the sound of a human soul being destroyed through black magic. Although the post office employees claimed to have no knowledge of the howling the City Council shut down and sealed the post office and we were left without our Amazon orders for six months. _Six_... _Months_... _God_, I missed ordering Nintendo games…

But then, as we all know, the post office suddenly reopened half a year later, being run by strange, cloth-wrapped figures who hummed, tunelessly, and turned in place instead of doing any official postal business. It addition, the entire customer line and lobby area was full of more of these cloth-wrapped figure, all similarly turning and humming. Citizens who attempted to enter the post office were beset by waves of dizziness and nausea, and were psychically assaulted with visions of the dark planet, a planet of awesome size, lit by no sun, an invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans inhabited by mysterious, shrouded figures gently swaying into one another before the backdrop of the dark planet's rolling, bottomless ocean… and the price of stamps had risen an entire _two cents!_

The City Council has since made a statement that the whole time stream issue appears to be emerging from the Night Vale Post Office. Scientists, real scientists that is and not James the scientist, invested the building, and those who survived have reported that there are _computers_ inside! They say that the disruption in the time stream continuum are being caused by these computers, but to what end, they still don't know.

Well, the City Council has decided to shut down the post office once more thanks to these disturbing and horrific revelations. They want me to inform readers that you are _not_ to go near the post office for _any_ reason _at all,_ even if you- even if you _hear_ your _family_ members _screaming?_

Moving on.

James has texted to let me know that he had just gotten into an altercation with a man in a tan jacket. He said that he'd asked the man a few questions, about who he was and what he was doing, usual spy- uh, I mean scientist things. Only, then the man in the tan jacket refused to answer, and one thing led to another and before he knew it, James was fighting him.

It was a fight, dear listeners, that he unfortunately lost.

Apparently, they don't have deer skin briefcases full of flies where James is from, and so, when the man in the tan jacket opened the briefcase in his face, he was quite startled. The man in the tan jacket used this moment to escape, and when James fought his way through the flies, he was gone. Strangely enough, listeners, James said once the fight was over, he couldn't remember anything about the man in the tan jacket. What he looked like, what else he was wearing, or even what he'd said in response to James's questioning. He said he's going to follow him to find out.

If anyone has any information at all about the man in the tan jacket, please let us know.

And now, the weather.

* * *

_The heart of love is patience, and this coffee that I'm making_

_And you cause outside kids are breaking, on rocks of their own making_

_And we are breathing easy, and seeing clear, I guess if I wanted to move now I could_

_Yes I know the leaves are changing, but I don't find that image interesting_

_Right now cause even as time's moving, it's just you in different clothing_

_And if this blanket moves at all, we'll be back in time's free fall_

_We'll lose, so hold on tight to last night, denial wrapped in morning light_

_We soothe, I guess get dressed, rejoin the mess, but I think about that less and less_

_With you, yes I feel the future looming and the tide of time subsuming_

_I guess if I wanted to move now I could_

* * *

Listeners! This just in: _James Bond was seen entering the Night Vale Post Office!_

I quickly rang him to ask just what the _hell_ he thought he was doing, but he said he saw the man in tan jacket enter the post office not ten minutes ago and decided to follow him. I quickly told him that he needed to leave, _immediately_, that the City Council has just forbidden all citizens from entering the building, but then he told me that he wasn't a citizen and so that law didn't apply to him.

God I hate it when he's right.

I pleaded with him to leave, but he laughed that beautiful sweet laugh of his, and said he had to go. He hung up, listeners, and went into the post office. Since then I've been anxiously waiting by my phone, waiting for him to call, because any time that I try to call or text him, my phone melts just that little bit and soon there'll be no phone at all for him to contact me with and-

_Oh_.

John Peters, you know, the farmer? has just rang in, dear listeners. He said he was passing by the post office on a totally unrelated quest and saw James – _sweet_ James, _brave_ James – approaching the entrance to the Night Vale Post Office, saying he was going to get to the bottom of this man in the tan jacket, that someone had to, and that the City Council was deranged.

The City Council just shouted through my studio window in unison, "Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Say that to my face, big shot!"

But James, my _poor_ James, is already gone.

I fear, Night Vale. I fear for what we know. I fear for what we don't know. I fear for what we don't yet know that we don't know.

In the meantime, while I wait anxiously, desperately, for an answer, here's traffic.

* * *

_All roads lead to somewhere, and all roads come from somewhere. And in between they are a snarl and curve, a twist and a bend. Where are we going? I mean, metaphorically? Where are we coming from? I mean, literally. Is it possible to stop, or turn around, and if not, what does that mean for the latest polls and economic reports? Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, Route 800 is looking clear in both directions. The old dirt road to the small wooden shack is backed up at least thirty minutes. There. Now you know. Has that filled an emptiness for you? Are you any happier now? I hope so. _

* * *

This has been, and will always be, traffic.

_Oh happy day!_ I have just received word that James the spy _returned_ from the post office, gesturing to everyone around and asking them to follow him. He lead them into the post office, which is not an easy place for a crowd, so there was a lot of crouching and saying "Excuse me. Excuse me!"

But soon enough, they were all arrayed in front of the counter, overlooking the dreaded computer metropolis. John Peters, you know, the farmer? said it was the first time most of them had seen a computer. It seemed strange, he said, and many of the crowd quaked with fear, but not James. My brave James stepped out next to the computer and said that the man in the tan jacket had told him to destroy it before the time stream variations couldn't be stopped and they were all killed by-

He paused, frowned, and finished by saying he couldn't quite remember who the man in the tan jacket had warned him against.

Shaking his head, he stepped closer to destroy the computers with a gun he pulled from his shoulder holster. Guns don't kill people, after all, but they do kill machines. At first, onlookers were horrified at his lunatic actions. Then, they were confused as he began to shoot the computer and their time streams began to restore themselves. And then, there was panic, as their eyes told them a story they could not understand, let alone believe.

Standing behind James the spy, dear listeners, was _Raoul Silva._

James, standing triumphantly in front of the first destroyed computer in a room with a dozen more, was unaware of Silva creeping up behind him. He had a _gun_, listeners. Raoul Silva had a gun, and he took aim, _and he fired_.

Blood welled through James' shirt, and here I am, stuck in my booth, useless, only able to narrate and not to help. He staggered, fell to his knees – so much blood! He collapsed completely.

Curse this town, that saw James die. Curse me for tell you all how guns can kill people like James. Curse it all!

Let us take a moment to–

Let us…take this moment–

Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass–

Can't. _I can't!_

Oh, I always knew he was bad news that Silva, that- that- _that Desert Bluffs enthusiast!_ He's the one who caused all of these time stream disruptions, he's the one who caused the post office to be shut down and installed disgusting computers inside it, and he's the one who hurt James!

_He hurt James_…

I don't know what's going to happen next, dear listeners. I don't know if James is barely hurt or badly wounded or- or- or even _dead._ I don't know what Silva has planned for all here in this quiet little town. I don't even know how many of you can still hear me…

Until-

Well.

Until I know more, I guess…

Goodnight, Night Vale, Goodnight.


	5. Five

You know that old adage? The one that goes 'A blind deer owes you money, but you best not take it'? Yes? Well, that has _never_ been more true...

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Oh, listeners it's _wonderful!_

When I last spoke to you that dreaded Raoul Silva had shot my poor sweet innocent James as he had tried to destroy the terrifying computers that had been causing these time stream issues. I thought he was dead, listeners, we all did. But now- _now_ it seems that James the spy is _not_ dead at all! It seems that the Apache Tracker ran in, shoving awkwardly through the crowd in the post office and shouting "Наконец, мое время пришло!"

He leapt at Silva, trailing his offensive feather headdress, and heaved James up in a might bear hug, carrying him out of the way while being attacked viciously by a now weaponless Silva.

Even John Peters, you know, the farmer? who was upset still about seeing the computers, couldn't help but cheer as the formerly false, now real, Native American laid James safely on the linoleum floor.

Teddy Williams, who of course is also a licensed doctor -as all bowling alley owners are required to be- checked his wounds and indicated through a series of rhythmic hoots that James will be, in fact, okay!

_He's okay._

Never before in my career as a broadcaster have I gone through such a roller coaster of emotion and fear! To think, that I had lost that most precious thing to me, the presence of James in my life, and then to have it brought back, so that I could appreciate it all the more.

Oh, _James!_ All the words I would never have said to you...

And the news that the Night Vale Post Office was being used as an evil villain lair for Raoul Silva to ruin our time streams… well, that was startling as well. But it appears that all is well! And so I say to you, with a heart singing its way from heavy to light, here's a word from our sponsors!

* * *

_FedEx can deliver a SACK OF TARANTULAS overnight! FedEx can deliver a SACK OF TARANTULAS even if that's not what you shipped! __**FedEx.**_

* * *

Oh no. I have just been handed a note.

Oh. This is _not_ good news.

Ladies and gentlemen, in his valiant rescue of our beloved James the spy, the Apache Tracker was mortally wounded by Silva. He is bleeding profusely and it is getting all over his fake feather headdress, and he says that even his ancient Indian magics will not help him –which, of course, they won't, because they're not real.

_Listeners_, how could I have been so wrong about this man? A racist embarrassment to our town? _Maybe_. A real jerk? _Yes_. But he also was a man with Night Vale's best interests at heart, who worked closely with the Angels and the mysterious Man in the Tan Jacket to protect us from the changing time streams. And he, at the cost of his own _life_, saved James.

James breathes and soon... soon the Apache Tracker will not.

Tell me nothing else, and still I will tell you: _here_ is a good man. Here is a good man _dying_. Here it is, the end of a _good_ _man's_ _life_. The Apache Tracker spoke, not in a hoarse whisper, but with a clear, ringing voice, addressing the sky hidden behind the styrofoam panels of the ceiling:

"Ладно, ладно. Я знал, это случится. Ты можешь взять мою машину."

He said this, and then he died. The Apache Tracker is dead, Teddy Williams confirmed.

Goodnight, brave Tracker. Goodnight. I thought you were one thing and you were another. It is likely I will learn nothing from this.

It was at this moment that James, dear _beautiful_ James with his perfect hair and teeth, groaned and got to his feet, the gun in his hand still pointed at Silva when he fired.

It didn't hurt him, of course, because guns don't kill people.

But it served as a _great_ distraction.

Silva lunged for him, trying to wrestle the gun from his grasp, and James let him, using the man's momentary confusion to tackle him to the ground. They struggled, dear listeners, but James came out on top, pulling an old combat knife from a holster on his ankle and stabbing Silva in the back.

Guns don't kill people. But knives do.

What a fitting end for our resident traitor, being literally stabbed in the back just as he metaphorically did the same to us.

James stood up, panting and bruised and bloody, and I can only _imagine_ how beautiful he must have looked in that moment. He dropped the reddened knife at his feet, yanks the power cords from all the computers in the room, and then stumbled his way outside, pulling out his phone and muttering about need to-

_Oh_. My phone just dinged.

James texted.

He said he wants me to meet him at the post office parking lot, listeners. Um… I am not sure what scientific exploration now needs the services of my radio audience, but I will dutifully go, dutifully meet him.

And as I go, let us all go. Go now, to the _weather_.

* * *

_She knows a thing or two about me_

_She didn't learn in passing_

_She knows I'm scared of the dark_

_She knows I'll bleed on command_

_She knows I'll shut my mouth_

_If she'll take my hand_

_And just how cruel I can be_

_She knows a thing or two about me._

_Where could she go_

_That I would not follow_

_Leaving my sorrow behind?_

* * *

I arrived at the parking lot to find James perched on the hood of his silver Aston Martin DB5 in his blood-stained white shirt and suit trousers, his perfect hair mussed, his perfect teeth hidden.

"What is it?" I said, "What- What danger are we in? What mystery needs to be explored?"

He shook his head. "Nothing" He said, "After everything that happened…I just wanted to see you".

My heart _leapt_. My heart _soared!_ My heart metaphorically performed a number of aerial activities and _literally_ it began to beat hard.

"Oh?" I said, my voice more tremble than word.

James looked at the setting sun. "I used to think it was setting at the wrong time" He said "but then I realised that time doesn't work in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real. Sometimes things seem so _strange_... and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something _pure_, and _innocent_".

"I know what you mean" I replied.

Somewhere, a Man in a Tan Jacket is whispering into the ears of our mayor, and we do not know what agenda they pursue. Somewhere, the body of the Apache Tracker lies cold and still, never to speak of ancient Indian magics again. Somewhere, this all happens.

But not _here_.

Here, James and I sat on the hood of that car, his car, looking together at the lights up in the sky above the Post office… they were beautiful in the hushed twilight, shimmering in a night sky already coming alive with bits of the universe.

"I'm not a scientist, Q" He said, "And I wasn't sent here to do science".

My heart started beating faster.

He turned to me. "I'm a spy, working for Her Majesty's Secret Service. I have a licence to kill".

Which, I mean, we _all_ do, so I wasn't quite sure why he mentioned that part…

"I was sent here to investigate the time stream issues" James said quietly, "Intelligence Agencies all over the world were getting nervous, and MI6 drew the short straw. So they sent me... I lied to you, Q".

"No, you didn't" I replied, just as softly, "Because I already knew. We all did".

It was quite adorable how his face scrunched up in confusion at that.

"You did?" He asked.

"Yea" I said.

"Oh" He replied.

He put his hand on my knee and said nothing more. And I knew what he meant. I felt the same. I leaned my head on his shoulder.

"I don't want to leave Night Vale" He whispered suddenly, "I quite like it here. I quite like you, Q".

I felt myself flush, dear listeners, and buried my face in his neck to prevent him from seeing.

"I quite like you too, James" I said in response.

His arm came up to wrap around my shoulder, "I'll have to return soon. Now that the job is done... But I'll come back. I swear to you _I'll come back_. Trust me".

I sighed. No one ever returns after they leave Night Vale, after all, we all know that.

"I have a mortgage and five cats to feed" I said, "I can't hang around, waiting for you to keep your promise".

"Well then I suggest you trust me" He replied, smiling, "For the sake of the cats".

James just left, dear listeners. He says he's returning to a place called England, but that he'll come back to me. To Night Vale. For now, I can only hope. Hope and dream of the sun, the moon, of being with James with again. Of a world that is not anything at all…

Perhaps, a dream of things yet to come.

Goodnight, Night Vale, _Goodnight_


	6. Six

Your Man-Card has been revoked. You aren't a real man. You have short tentacles and can't survive out of water. Here's your Cuttlefish-Card.

I am your host, Q.

Welcome to Night Vale.

* * *

Hello, listeners… I guess…

It's been… um… about a month? now, that James… beautiful, perfect _James_… left Night Vale. And I'm doing fine, really, no matter what Intern Eve says. It's just… _hard_, you know? I miss him… I really _miss_ him…

In other news, the City Council wants me to let you guys know that Raoul Silva has been apprehended and is awaiting trial by way of howling eagles, as usual. So far it looks like he'll be found guilty on accounts of all charges, which include but are not limited to, treason, grand larceny, murder, disrupting the time-stream, unlawful imprisonment of sixteen computers, and poached egg assault. The Sheriff's confident that he'll be sentenced to death and his rotten soul incarcerated in the abandoned coal mine for centuries to come.

The Apache Tracker was buried with full Native American honours, despite the fact he was not actually Native American and seemed to be Slavic in origin and therefore was considered a cartoonish racist asshole by all of us here in Night Vale, but he will be missed.

The computers have been apprehended and sent to technological prison, where our black and white televisions, Nokia 360's, and Tamagotchi's also currently reside.

The Night Vale Post Office has once again been shut down, but agents from a vague yet menacing government agency have since taken over the ownership of the derelict building and appear to be _rebuilding_ it? So… There's that, at least…

Ever since James left, dear listeners, I've gotten kind of isolated. A little… hermit-like lately. I'm proud of the great work James is doing, don't get me wrong, but I still miss him just so _much_. I have felt disconnected lately. My being has been split between the here and the now, and the there and the now. My relationship with James currently exists within the idea of distance, within the concept of space, rather than in any specific place. I've gotten a lot of calls, emails, telegrams, and sympathetic glances the past couple of weeks, from people who are wondering if he'll ever return from the Other World that is called 'England'. And here I _remind_ you that he _had_ to leave because he _saved_ _our city_ from treacherous dark forces. _I remind you he is a hero_… I remind you that my boyfriend is a hero…

Here's a word from out sponsors, I suppose.

* * *

_Remember the difference! Stalagmites MIGHT portend famine and hordes, while stalactites DEFINITELY portend floods and birds. __**National Geographic.**_

* * *

Listeners, I-

I don't _believe_ it. It's… I _can't_-

Intern Eve just ran in during our brief break and told me that I had a visitor. I didn't believe her at first, because who would visit me? You all know that I'm on air now, of course you do, you're out there in our beautiful little town listening to my _sonorous_ _deep_ _voice..._

But I'm getting off topic.

I told Eve that I couldn't talk to any visitor now because, well, I'm on air, but she just shook her head, mouth gasping wordlessly as she appeared to be in shock, before pointing out into the studio booth and fainting.

I turned, dear listeners, to face the window that divides that booth from my own, and-

_And there he stood._

Six foot of glorious, beautiful, perfect blonde hair and blue eyes and white teeth and-

_James_.

James the spy, James the not-scientist, James the- _my boyfriend!_

"Hello Q" He said, simply, as if he couldn't see how my eyes widened or my pulse raced or my heart almost burst out of my chest.

"So, you're not dead then?" I asked, just as calmly.

"Oh, how I've missed you" He replied, taking three long strides into my recording studio, heedless of the 'On Air' sign outside the door.

"I brought you a souvenir" He said, "I didn't have time to finish that surprise I was working on, but hopefully this is better".

And then, dear listeners, he showed me a-

_Hang on._

Before I continue, and just to make sure that no Sheriff's Secret Police, City Council members, or agents from a vague yet menacing organisation are listening… I give you now, to the weather!

* * *

_How do I love thee? __Let me count the ways._

_I love thee when thou bringest coffee in bed,_

_Or suggest that we go to brunch instead._

_I eat French toast b__ut take bites of thine eggs_

_Like, oh dude, __I love thee with so much grace,_

_And praise, __And poise and style and pizazz._

_Each day's most quiet need and all that jazz._

_Love thee just as much as I love the cave._

_That cave in our yard from which voices sound,_

_Demanding all our smiles, tears, and breath._

_When the voices speak, t__ime goes all unwound._

_Merciful cave, w__e grovel, offer flesh._

_We will enter the cave, c__rawl underground._

_I shall but love thee better after death._

* * *

Now so, where was I?

Oh yes! The _souvenir!_ My goodness, listeners, you won't _believe_ what marvellous present James brought me back from his travels:

_A pen!_

Yes, that's right, you heard me: An actual, real life, fully functioning _pen!_ The same writing utensil that the City Council banned long ago, along with margarita glasses and bar code scanners.

"I'm guessing this is not official" I said, staring at it.

"Not even remotely" He said.

"So much for my promising career as a radio host" I said, finally reaching out to take it from him.

I cannot begin to even articulate how wonderful it was to hold a pen in my own two hands. I felt gloriously happy, elated, and positively _stupid_ with joy, much in the same way I felt when I realised that James the spy was standing in front of me, there in my own booth, back in Night Vale once more.

"I told you I'd return" He said.

"You did" I said.

"How's the mortgage and five cats?"

"Still there. How's England?"

"Still there" He repeated, smiling with those beautiful white teeth of his that cause dimples in his cheeks and lines around his eyes.

"Are you here to stay?" I asked, somewhat intrepidly.

"Will you have me?" He asked, definitely intrepidly.

"Of course".

"Then yes, Q" James said, "I'm here to stay".

What followed was surely something not allowed to be described on air, but know this, dear listeners: _James the ex-spy has returned, and he's never leaving again!_

He's tried to retire in the past, apparently, but it never stuck because he always got bored. But here in Night Vale, boredom is impossible. No. Really. It is. The Sheriff's Secret Police specifically forbid it. Any and all persons who feel the rich tendrils of boredom just outside of their grasp should report to city hall for reconfiguration immediately. I think they spray something in the air…

And so, with _aching_ cheeks from my constant smiling, with my cardigan and tie askew, and with Intern Eve making funny faces at me in the background, I bring you to today's traffic.

* * *

_Missed connections. I saw you in passing once and forgot you soon after. You never even saw me. We went on to live long, full lives. Missed connections. You were a branch. I was a branch on the next tree over. We could never touch. But we aren't sentient, so we didn't care. Missed connections. You just missed your bus. Guess you won't make that connection._

* * *

Oh listeners, I cannot even express how _happy_ I am right now. James is back in my life, and this time, _it's for good!_ He's no longer pretending to be a scientist, and he left all his guns back in England, so I think he really _means_ it! He just exited the studio during our last break, and I gave him the keys to my flat for him to move into. I don't know if _he_ knows that I want him to move in permanently, or if he thinks it's just until he can start his new life here, but as long as he's _here_, I'm happy.

But when he left, he was mumbling about "making a home together" so I think he understood me.

_God I love him._

My love for Night Vale and my love for James are the same love, I think. It is the love of someone who has given their life completely to something beyond themselves. I once described Night Vale as a friendly desert community, where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. And it still is. I know nowhere friendlier. I know nowhere hotter. The moon is still beautiful. Mysterious lights still pass overhead, and James… I can't wait for every _single night_ I get to pretend to sleep next to him.

I don't know how our story will end, dear listeners, or, in fact, if it'll ever end! But I'm happy where we are right now. With a mortgage and five cats and this pen and my inventions and maybe… maybe something _more_ than that. Something more… _official_ than boyfriends. If James plans to stay here with me forever then why not? I'm not talking about a traditional marriage, of course, since the Sheriff's Secret Police outlawed that many _many_ years ago, but if James wants to do something more permanent then who am I to stop him?

He's the only one I want, after all, so I'd gladly marry him with **Paper Rings.**

Goodnight, Night Vale, _Goodnight_


End file.
